


Resumption

by xiilnek



Category: Dark Tower - Stephen King
Genre: Gen, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 02:51:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1167769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xiilnek/pseuds/xiilnek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the end, Gilead begins again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

In the end, Gilead begins again.

The gunslinger has no idea whether it is a glammer. He doesn't really care. He sits on the green grass, watches the small figures move back and forth in the distance. It is enough. To see the stone towers without moss, to see people - not muties or strung out, desperate survivors, but normal townspeople going about their business. It is enough, and if it _is_ a glammer he is too tired to face it. He is alone, and this is enough.

He hasn't gone in any of the castles. He hasn't gone to the hall of the grandfathers. It's there, though, just there, with the same weight it always seemed to have, that same pull, the same scars in its stone. He might have seen Cort, once, a scarred bald head and a bowlegged walk and Roland had closed his eyes, only opening them once a long time had passed.

After a while, he starts to get hungry. He doesn't know how he got here. He leans back against a thin tree, gazes out at the colors and sounds of his old home, and tries not to think about it.

There's a poke at his shoulder and he startles awake, reaches for guns that aren't there. Dark eyes stare at him, wide and wary and not at all afraid. Gunslinger's eyes. The face that houses the eyes is angular and thin, and appallingly familiar.  

"You're not supposed to sleep here," the boy tells him. "Homeless people sleep in lower town."

Roland runs a hand slowly over his jaw, feeling the oil on his skin, hearing the stubble rasp under his fingers. "I'll keep that in mind."

Then, on impulse, he adds, "How are your lessons going, just now?"

The wariness in the boy's gaze only increases. "What business is it of yours? You're not my father."

Roland closes his eyes, tips his head back and washes his face in the sun, thinks he can almost hear his face creak around the corners of his smile. "None, only I might have seen Cort heading this way earlier."

Small boots crunch on grass, getting faint as the boy gets more distant, and Roland opens his eyes to watch Cuthbert's progress a moment. Then he stands.

The castles are well-kept. Clean. Well-lit. Filled with people going about their own business. In one long, wide hallway, Roland sees his father.

His step stutters to a stop. Steven feels the stare, of course. Blue eyes lock on pale, faded blue. Steven's hand twitches toward his hip, the smallest movement and they both know Roland saw it. Roland waits, swallows. Feels his breathing catch in his throat. The tall, desperately thin figure frowns, takes a step forward, and Roland falls to his knees.

A while later, Roland sits in a chamber, his father and his father's ka-tet sitting arrayed at the table around him. "You really expect us to believe the Dark Tower brought you here?" Two of them glance at one another, sharing that silent communication of deep, familiar ka-tet. Air makes its way of Roland's mouth like a breeze whispering its way through a crack in some old, crumbling wall.

"I don't care." He has a brief thought, the moment he hears himself say that. A brief regret. Saying that to these men, to the fathers of his own first ka-tet. He doesn't take it back, nor add anything. There's nothing else _to_ add. He lowers his face into his hands.

Their stares press at the sides of his face, at what remains of his fingers. He doesn't have the energy to press back.

"...What was it like?" one asks, finally.

Roland blinks at the gaps between his fingers, then lowers his hands, forearms pressing against the smooth cool wood of the table. "Cruel," is what he decides on, and the gentlest, warmest smile tugs for a moment at his lips, and fades. "If I fall asleep," he adds, gaze still locked on the design etched into the table, still not seeing it at all. "Where do you think I'll wake?" 

He can feel them glance at each other again. He still doesn't care. His father's long, thin fingers wrap around his arm, but barely, trying to touch without touching. It's as if he either can't stand to press at Roland with too much force, or doesn't dare. He can feel his father's speech rustling past his ears, turns his head up toward the slitted window and feels a beam of sun arrow straight into his eyes, washing everything out into shining, red-edged light. He lets his eyes close. It really is very bright. 


	2. Chapter 2

He's sitting on the roof. A boy had come up earlier, looked at Roland like a spooked rodent, then gone back down the stairs without a word. People avoid him, mostly. They walk carefully around him, eyeing him as if he'll either explode or shatter at any moment.

He comes up here, sometimes. Often. Watches the horizon. A few times he'd realized he was looking for a line of people on that horizon, not an army so much as an organized mob. He looks for it, looks for the fire that follows on their heels, the crumbling towers and abandoned dead. After those first few times he'd given up stopping himself from looking. They haven't come yet. He bows his head and rubs at his brow, though it doesn't ache.

It's not only a good point to see, the spot he's sitting at - it's also a good point to hear. He can hear people passing through the main gate into Gilead's complex of castles, he can hear people heading past, moving out toward the fields or the old quarter. The sounds usually mix into a babble of voices, conversation and the occasional animal. Sometimes an argument.  It's an argument he hears now, though that's not what turns Roland's head. The guards at the main gate always watch and hardly speak, but one of them is speaking now. Loudly. The patter of quick, urgent speech the guard gets in return is familiar, but it's a false familiarity. This memory of Gilead has been very realistic so far, and such a voice as the one Roland hears now wouldn't fit. Unless this place is meant to seem some paradise at the end of his path, in which case if Roland doesn't intervene soon this newest memory is probably going to be imprisoned before Roland can even see his face.

He stands, and follows the voices. He doesn't hurry, and by the time he arrives the guard is grabbing at one of Eddie's forearms. Eddie's face is the picture of indignation, edging into anger, and Roland stops a ways behind the guard's shoulder to study it. That face is everything he remembers. The hair is a little shorter.

"Hey!" Eddie's finally seen Roland, and his face lights up. He waves his free hand. "Hey! He'll vouch for me! Come on, Roland, tell this guy to get his mitts off."

The guard turns to face him, and Roland gives the barest nod. Then waits. It's anyone's guess whether any in this place would consider Roland's word enough, especially for a matter of security, and the guard's pause says that _he_ isn't sure, either. After a moment of studying Roland's face, though, the guard nods, releases Eddie's arm, and steps back. 

 Eddie's glance between them says he noticed the hesitation, but he doesn't waste any time moving past the gate to Roland's side. "What was that about? Looked like he was five seconds away from throwing me into the brig anyway."

There's no mark on Eddie's forehead or his brow. Not anywhere. Not even a scar. Roland wonders if he'd have preferred that there had been. Then the energy to wonder about it slips away, along with the question itself, and Roland turns around to make his way back to the spot at the roof.

"Um." Roland can hear Eddie's steps speed up briefly as Eddie moves to keep pace with him. "Roland?"

Roland's steps slow as he looks down at the familiar features, feels the corners of his lips drift up just a little. It's good to see his face. Better than he might have expected, if he'd expected to see it at all. Good to see Eddie walking next to him, asking questions. If he'd been able to choose what to see at the end of his path, this would have been one of those choices. He starts walking again. Eddie looks strange against the backdrop of Gilead's castles, walking past its stone and the tapestries that line its walls. But perhaps 'strange' is appropriate for Eddie. It'll be good to see him, if he stays.

"Uh. You're freaking me out a little." Eddie's still keeping step with him, which is a little surprising. Usually people appear to him, say a few brief sentences, and then fade back again. Eddie always was persistent.

"I wonder what you'll think of the view," Roland murmurs. He doesn't make many noises louder than a murmur, these days. It feels as if the air around him catches any sound he might make, muffles it.

"Ummmm o-kay..." Eddie sounds extremely dubious now. Roland wonders if he'll fade away before they get there.

Once he reaches the roof, both Eddie's shadow and his footsteps are still keeping pace with Roland, and when Roland turns to see, Eddie's face is still here, too.

"The view always was... beautiful," says Roland now, still speaking in that low tone. He turns back to it; the fields in the distance, and the trees beyond them, are a lush, healthy green. They're greener than anything Roland has seen in a very long time. "Never more so than in the morning. With the mist." He sets a hand on the edge of the wall and leans on it a little, looking out. There's no mist here now, though. It'll come with sunrise. "Maybe you'll be here to see it."

Roland turns, his back to the wall, and slides down it. He rests his wrists on his knees. He can feel Eddie's stare. Eddie hunkers, peers closely at his face, and Roland does not peer back.

"What in the _hell_ 's happened to you?" Eddie asks. He reaches out a hand, hesitates, then brushes a hank of black-and-grey hair back, pushing it away from Roland's face. He leans forward, trying to catch Roland's gaze. "Buddy? Roland? Are you in there?" Then Eddie sits back, lets out a gust of breath. His hand slides off Roland's skin. "Jesus."

Roland closes his eyes, and the world gets darker. "I'm sorry, Eddie."

"Sorry for what?" There's the rustling of clothing and a soft _thump_ as Eddie sits next to him. "What happened to you, Roland?"

A moment passes, then Eddie speaks into Roland's silence. "...Is there anything I can do?"

One of Eddie's hands creeps over Roland's shoulder, then his back, then around his other shoulder. There's more quiet rustling of clothing as Eddie moves closer, and begins to slowly, hesitantly pull Roland toward him. Roland lets himself be pulled, and when he opens his eyes, he's got an up-close view of the collar of Eddie's shirt.

"Jesus," Eddie says again. One hand runs over the top of Roland's head, fingers brushing at the back of his neck. "...Jesus."

He can call on the Christian gods as much as he likes, Roland decides, turning his head and feeling his dead friend's body heat start to leech into him.  Roland doesn't think that they are going to help. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had this AU/epilogue to the series swirling around in my head for a little while. In my head it was quite a bit happier. But doesn't it just fit that, once Roland has almost everything he's never dared to dream of, he'd be incapable of actually enjoying it? I consider this chapter to be bittersweet hug!fic, which is maybe my favorite kind. 
> 
> I'm not sure if I'll figure out where to go with this, hence the story being marked as finished. If I don't continue it, I think what's here can stand on its own. I usually wouldn't publish a multiple chapter story unless I was sure it was going somewhere, but not many people tend to browse the Dark Tower tag so I figured, why not? 
> 
> If anyone does read this note and has anything you'd like to see, or anything you think would be interesting, please do tell me and I'll figure out if I can turn it into another chapter.


End file.
